


John's First Murder

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the night slave John finds himself helping his master Sherlock solve a gruesome murder—which is apparently a thing Sherlock does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

The ringing phone started to wake him, but John ignored it easily enough. He didn’t have a phone anymore. Sherlock’s low voice talking into the phone was peripheral at best, and he had almost fallen completely back to sleep. Then Sherlock started shaking him.

“John. John! Wake up.” John made a grunt of acknowledgement and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. The sting of stretched wounds on his back helped considerably. “Get up. Get dressed.” Sherlock was already doing the same. “Go back to your room.”

“Alright, fine,” John sighed, forcing himself up.

He thought he saw a smirk cross Sherlock’s face, perhaps at his less-than-obsequious tone. Then there was a knock at the front door, which really got John’s attention. The clock said it was about four in the morning. “Are you expecting someone?” John asked as he hunted around for his pants.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, slipping on his jacket. He ran a quick hand through his unruly dark curls, and then somehow he looked elegant and sophisticated, even after the night they’d had. John felt like he’d been run over by a truck, and expected he looked it. “Might be a while, then I’m probably going out. So get a move on.” He disappeared out the bedroom door.

John tried to apply Sherlock’s methods of logic to figure out more about the situation as he dressed, but the best he could come up with was it probably wasn’t someone else Sherlock was having sex with. And that thought was cheering, in a way John was not mentally equipped to investigate right now.

He slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall, pausing at the corner as he heard voices. Sherlock, Greg, and someone else he didn’t recognize. Oh well. None of his business, right? The common area was mostly dark, so maybe he would make it to the door without being noticed; the three men were clustered tightly around the coffee table with just the single overhead lamp. Feeling ridiculously self-conscious, John now wanted nothing more than to escape to the hall and go back to his room, as ordered. His hand had just reached the knob when—

“John.”

“I’m leaving,” he assured Sherlock immediately, not wanting to look over and see everyone staring at him.

“Come here.” And then John was forced to turn and make his way into the circle of light, hoping he didn’t look as bad as he felt. Greg’s expression suggested he hadn’t succeeded. “Have a seat and take a look at these,” Sherlock told him, in a slightly less imperious tone than usual, which was suspicious in itself.

“Who’s this?” asked the stranger skeptically, as John sat on the couch next to Sherlock, trying not to wince as he did so, and gazed at the pictures spread out on the table.

“Army doctor,” Sherlock replied, imperious once again. “Well?”

“Not the usual place one finds a liver,” John began dryly, peering at one gory photo depicting the organ draped over the back of a couch. He glanced up at Greg. “Please tell me this didn’t happen here.”

Greg shook his head. “Fort Nelson down the road.” That matched the glimpses of a military uniform John saw under the stranger’s coat.

“What kind of injury made this scar, John?” Sherlock prompted, pushing another photo at him.

He matched it with one from a different angle and compared them. “IED,” John assessed, rolling back to knowledge he hadn’t needed in a while. “Probably filled with metal fragments. He was about fifteen feet away at the time, with his back to it.”

“What unit are you with?” the stranger asked, now more confused than suspicious.

John glanced at Sherlock, who gave him a challenging look, so he straightened up, hoped the open collar of his shirt didn’t show too many hickeys, and replied crisply, “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Assistant Surgeon. _Captain_ John Watson,” he added pointedly, spotting only two stars on the man’s shoulder.

He stiffened immediately. “Sorry, sir! Lieutenant William Shapley, Fort Nelson Military Police,” he identified, saluting.

John saluted back. “As you were, Lieutenant,” he allowed. Greg looked torn between amusement and discomfort; Sherlock, John was sure, would be all amusement, so he didn’t dare look at him. “What’ve we got here?”

“Private Paul Peterson, comm tech,” Lt. Shapley reported. “Found him just after midnight. Locked-door murder.”

“Locked-door mutilation and dismemberment,” Sherlock corrected with inappropriate glee, leaning in close to line various photos up before John.

John did not ask why the military had brought a fresh murder to Sherlock’s door. Obviously admitting ignorance of that in the present company would be disastrous. So instead he noted the dogtags with the man’s name and the many photos of his face damaged beyond all recognition, and merely asked, “Identity confirmed?”

“Well, we’re still waiting on fingerprints and DNA,” Lt. Shapley admitted. “But the tags, the flat—“

“You have a doubt, John,” Sherlock interrupted eagerly. His eyes glowed blue in the light, filled with excitement and—perhaps?—a touch of pride.

John suddenly wanted to live up to that. Desperately. “His hands,” he pointed out, bringing over another picture. “All the comm tech guys I knew, their hands were always sliced up from handling wires.” This man’s hands were smooth.

“Oh, brilliant, John!” Sherlock declared, clasping his hands. “I’d try to find the _real_ Private Peterson as soon as possible,” he added to Lt. Shapley in a patronizing tone. “He’s using the other fellow’s ID and has dyed his hair blond to match. Streaks of brown dye on his skin?” he added, pointing to a photo of the corpse’s disfigured head. “I trust you can figure out who else is missing from your base? Only, it might not _seem_ like he’s missing…”

“What?” Lt. Shapley asked in confusion.

“It could be someone who’s not supposed to be there,” John translated. “Someone who’s gone off on assignment.”

“Probably quite recently, within the last twenty-four hours,” Sherlock went on. Shapley began furiously texting. “He and Peterson had some kind of scheme going, but Peterson’s been planning to off him for a while. He’s due to go off the base, but Peterson kills him first and takes his place on assignment. By disguising the corpse he gives himself at least two days’ head start, while the Army takes its time confirming the ID.”

“Brilliant,” John complimented.

“Eh, it’s slightly intelligent, but not really brilliant,” Sherlock countered. “I can think of a dozen better ways to kill someone and take their place.”

“I meant your deduction.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Well. I told you they were good, didn’t I?” Greg said, as Lt. Shapley goggled at them. “And later, we’re going to chat about those ways you could kill someone,” he added lightly to Sherlock, who just gave him a look.

“Okay, um…” said Lt. Shapley, slightly overwhelmed at this point. “How did he get out, with all the doors and windows locked?”

“Pictures of the windows?” Shapley dug some out and handed them to Sherlock, who tossed them aside almost immediately. “Please,” he scoffed. “Any schoolboy can rig a wire to one of _those_ windows and close it after himself once he’s climbed out onto a tree or something. Peterson just broke the wire off afterwards. If you examine the latch closely you’ll find it.”

“Oh yeah, I remember doing that as a lad,” Greg reminisced fondly, as Shapley scrambled to find any close-up photos of the windows. “Sneak out at night, meet a girl behind the potting shed.”

“Well, I was stealing supplies from the chemistry storeroom,” Sherlock admitted.

“There’s a surprise,” Greg replied dryly.

John found Sherlock looking at him expectantly. “I never did,” he insisted. “Some of my mates did, but I was a good lad. And terrified of the headmaster and his paddle.”

“Well _that’s_ ironic,” Sherlock noted dryly.

John coughed and knew he’d turned bright red suddenly; the urge to giggle nervously was suppressed only with difficulty. Fortunately Lt. Shapley was squinting at some photos and not paying them much mind. “Um, well, if I’m going to be looking at photos of dismembered bodies,” he announced, clearing his throat, “I need some tea.”

He started to stand and Sherlock put a hand on his arm to stop him. “I’m sure the Lieutenant can take care of that for us, _Captain_ ,” he suggested pointedly, and Shapley looked up quickly.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, sir,” he agreed immediately. “Of course, sir.”

“Lovely. Kitchen’s over there,” Sherlock directed.

“The kettle’s in the sink,” John called after the other man helpfully. “Um, don’t mind any of the—things you might find,” he added. “I should really do it, he’s got no idea where anything is,” he pointed out to Sherlock.

“Oh, he made lieutenant, I’m sure he’ll figure it out,” he dismissed, sifting through the documents on the coffee table.

“Are these eyeballs?” Shapley called nervously from the kitchen.

“Put those back!” Sherlock snapped irritably.

“Away from the milk, ta,” John added more politely.

“Yes, sir,” Shapley agreed dubiously.

Sherlock leaned in close to John and murmured, “See, _that’s_ how you _ought_ to act. Yes, sir. No, sir. Please may I touch your eyeballs, sir?”

John couldn’t help snickering. “Yeah, I’ll work on that,” he whispered, sarcastically.

Greg glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen, then leaned forward to join their furtive conversation. “You better watch it,” he warned Sherlock in a low voice. “When he finds out he’s not really a captain he’s gonna lose it.”

“I _am_ a captain,” John protested. “Well, I _was_. Wait, am I not supposed to tell people that?” he asked with sudden alarm. He hadn’t really thought about the implications, he had just been trying to establish his credentials per Sherlock’s direction.

“It’s _illegal_ for a slave to misrepresent himself,” Greg told him pointedly, as though he should already know this. Which he probably should.

“What? I was just—“

“Please, does he _sound_ like a slave?” Sherlock asked dismissively. “He won’t be found out. Anyway it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve ever done.” That was not much comfort. “And _you’re_ not going to get in trouble,” he assured John, as though he was being silly for worrying. “You were just doing what I told you.”

“Bloody h—l,” John sighed.

“Once we solve this murder he won’t care either way,” Sherlock predicted. “Next he’ll want to know why the internal organs were taken out. I have six theories so far.”

“I wonder if any were missing,” John mused, trying to focus on the murder and not his possible punishment for disguising his slave status. In retrospect he really _should_ have been more careful about that.

“Ask him,” Sherlock prompted.

“ _You_ ask him,” John hissed. Slaves were probably not supposed to speak until spoken to, or something. Sherlock remained obnoxiously silent. Greg sighed and slumped back on the couch, which John took as tacit permission. “Lieutenant Shapley?” he called politely.

“Just coming, sir,” the man replied quickly.

“ _That’s_ what I want you to say,” Sherlock purred in John’s ear, and John elbowed him.

The lieutenant returned with a remarkably complete tea tray. “Ta,” John told him, as he was served first. Sherlock was further amused by this, since normally he was the first one served anywhere. “Um, I was just wondering, were all the internal organs accounted for? Nothing missing?”

“Nothing missing,” Shapley confirmed, serving Sherlock next and then Greg. “Just… moved about.”

“Could be misdirection,” Sherlock speculated. “Make them think they’re looking for someone really psychotic, instead of someone more ordinary.”

“Because the person who did this was totally ordinary,” Greg deadpanned, “and not at all psychotic.”

“Mmm,” John acknowledged, pulling a couple of other photos together. “The stomach’s been cut open,” he noted. “Were any of the other organs significantly damaged?”

“I don’t think so,” Lt. Shapley replied, though clearly he wasn’t certain. “I don’t _recall_ the stomach being cut open…”

“Well, here it is,” John pointed out, and they all hunched over one of the photos. “It’s a bit hard to make out,” he granted, considering the mess around it, which only Sherlock seemed completely unfazed by. “But I used to see a lot of wounds like this at Tessalina—a sword cut straight across the belly.”

“You were at Tessalina?” Shapley said with some awe.

“I was,” John confirmed casually, because, well, he _was_.

“Of course!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly. “That was their plan! Oh, that is bold, I give them that…” He bounced off the couch and started hopping around the room.

“ _What?_ ” Greg asked with exasperation.

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock replied, though clearly they didn’t. “With the stomach cut open?”

“There was something in his stomach Peterson wanted?” John guessed slowly.

“Yes!” Sherlock’s response was so exultant, the smile he gave John so blinding, that for a moment he forgot anyone else was in the room. Then Sherlock abruptly turned away and started digging through a stack of newspapers, discarding them messily over his shoulder.

“Well, _what_?” Greg was forced to ask him again.

“Something small, and valuable, and illicit,” Sherlock described. He finally seized on the newspaper he wanted and climbed over the back of the couch to display it to them. It was _The India Times_ from two weeks prior, and the headline was about a stolen diamond.

“The Bajraht Diamond?” Greg scoffed. “That’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

But Shapley had gone pale. “There was a Private Allan Miller who left the base on assignment last night,” he revealed, studying his phone. “And his assignment two weeks ago was in Mumbai.”

Sherlock crowed with triumph. “Miller steals the diamond, probably needed Peterson’s help for some part of it. They’re going to smuggle it out in Miller’s stomach when he goes for his next assignment, or so he thinks. Only Peterson crosses him, kills him, retrieves the diamond, and impersonates him to leave the base!”

“That’s amazing,” John opined.

“Are you talking about me again?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Shapley was texting wildly again, then hurried to gather up his evidence. John tried to help while Sherlock spun around the suite making noise. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Holmes,” he said, obviously eager to get back to base and investigate the completely different case Sherlock had revealed to him. “Thank you very much, Captain Watson,” he added, pumping John’s hand. Sherlock was not a big handshaker. “This was quite remarkable.”

“Oh, one or two interesting features, more daring than difficult,” Sherlock decided. This was not modesty about his own achievements but rather judgment of the criminals. “Certainly worth celebrating, though,” he added, turning a predatory gaze on John that made his mouth go dry.

“I’ll walk you out,” Greg told Shapley, who was too busy thinking about the case to notice they’d both been completely dismissed.

The door had barely shut before Sherlock had John balanced awkwardly on the back of the couch, kissing him hungrily. “Did we just—did we just solve a murder?” John managed to ask, with disbelief. He hadn’t thought his life could get any more surreal, frankly.

“Mostly _I_ solved it,” Sherlock corrected. “But you assisted at one or two points.”

“Does that happen often?” John wanted to know. Sherlock wanted other things. “You solving murders?”

“Murders, kidnappings, thefts,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, kissing his way down John’s chest as he unbuttoned his shirt. “That’s what I do. I solve crimes.”

Maybe it was that a considerable portion of his blood was no longer going to his brain, but this wasn’t making much sense to John. “You’re not—you’re not with the police,” he judged. He couldn’t imagine any law-abiding organization would keep Sherlock around for long.

“No. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world,” Sherlock claimed. John lost his grip on the couch and started to tumble backwards, and Sherlock grabbed him just in time. “Let’s take this operation elsewhere, _Captain_ ,” he murmured in John’s ear before nibbling it.

John allowed himself to be led back towards the bedroom. “Okay, you _really_ shouldn’t have encouraged me to do that,” he chided, trying to sound stern.

He failed utterly in the face of Sherlock’s rare, impish grin. “Oh, but it was _fun_ , wasn’t it?” he countered, irresponsibly. “He wouldn’t have listened to you otherwise. And the way he shot up and saluted when you said _captain_ …” He laughed devilishly and John’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yeah, well, not really had the opportunity to pull rank for ages,” John finally agreed with a smirk. It was over and done with now, anyway.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in delight. “Is that what you call it in England? _Pulling rank_? That’s rather dirty,” he decided gleefully. He pushed John onto his knees on the bed. “Though it’s given me a few ideas…”


	2. Chapter 2

Morning roll call was at ten AM. Missing it was not an option, or so John understood. Naturally Sherlock did not bother to think about that, so when John happened to wake from a brief nap and glance at the clock, he saw that he had barely enough time to get back to his room in the slave quarters and run through the shower before staggering into the assembly room. Sherlock himself had completely vanished, no surprise there.

John curled up awkwardly in a chair next to Molly. “You’ve had a night,” she observed, understated.

“Yeah. I think—Sherlock and I solved a murder last night?” He was not entirely certain if he had just hallucinated that.

Molly smiled knowingly. “Oh yes. Solving murders makes him very energetic, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t know he solved crimes,” John admitted. “Seems a bit weird. More likely to commit them.” Molly knew what he meant. “But he was really brilliant,” he added thoughtfully. “Turned the whole thing upside-down and solved it without even leaving the living room.”

“Yeah, I love it when he does that,” Molly agreed admiringly. “Although, it’s rather neat when we get to go to the city morgue and watch them dissect a body,” she added. “He says I’d make a good coroner.”

“Oh? Rather.” John was not sure what else to say about that. Instead he tried to shift into a more comfortable position in the chair and failed, wincing as his back stung. His shower had been h—lish, if mercifully brief, as the soap and water washed over his wounds.

Molly grimaced in sympathy and rubbed his shoulder. “What did he use on you?” she asked curiously.

John had not gotten a good look at it, nor had he wanted to. “Some sort of sharp… feather… rake?” he tried to describe. “Hardly bled at all, it’s just… everywhere.”

Molly nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember that one. It’s got a bite, it has.”

John narrowed his eyes at her. “If he’s already done it on _you_ , why’s he doing it on _me_?” he wanted to know, indignant. Not that he really bought Sherlock’s claims that it was all ‘for scientific purposes,’ but—

“Biological replicates,” Molly explained, undismayed. John rolled his eyes but was too tired to think of a counter-argument. Not that it would do any good with Molly. Or Sherlock, for that matter.

Sleeping at roll call was probably frowned upon, John had decided, but he noticed people sometimes did it anyway, positioning themselves in the front row so Sally could see them easily. It wasn’t really a roll _call_ so much as Sally walking around visually identifying each slave and marking them off on her smartphone; at the end her list should match that of the slaves who’d scanned their fingerprints at the door as they entered the room that morning, and of course the master list of house slaves.

Exceptions were rarely granted to attending roll call, John had been told—you basically had to be laid up in the Infirmary or something. And the visual inspection, followed by Sally’s assignment announcements, was slow and inefficient. John had at first wondered why they didn’t do it differently; but then he realized the slaves had no reason to want _that_ , as this constituted one of the few rest periods they had in their day. So those who had been working hard all night—including John—tried to get some sleep in while they could.

Sally was reading off the names of the slaves who’d been assigned to the kitchens for the day when Sherlock strode into the assembly room. Immediately all the slaves hopped to their feet—except John, who knew who it was by his walk and decided he would just pretend to be asleep, even after Molly nudged him. Sherlock could not possibly ask for him again after the night they’d had—surely, at some point, _he_ needed sleep as well?

“I need John,” Sherlock told Sally, heedless of the crowd staring at him. He was heedless of Sally, too, playing with his phone rather than looking at her.

“No.” That got his attention, at least, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “Look at him, he can’t even stand up!” she pointed out sharply.

Sherlock gave him a passing glance. “He’s faking that, obviously,” he judged. John stayed still and tried to breathe evenly. If everyone remained quiet he might _really_ fall asleep. “I need him so I can see the results of my experiment,” Sherlock added to Sally, as if this was perfectly reasonable.

But in this moment at least, Sally actually had some power over Sherlock, slave though she was. As slave supervisor one of her jobs was to protect the slaves under her jurisdiction, and Sherlock was exactly the sort of person she was supposed to protect them _from_. “No,” she repeated coldly. “Under the law he gets eight hours’ rest before being used again.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly thinking little of that law. But he and Sally had been having this same argument for years, and he always got _a_ slave in the end, even if it wasn’t the first one he’d asked for. “I’ll let him sleep!” he tried again, generously. “I just need to examine him.”

Sally knew exactly how little _that_ promise was worth. “No.” John, still feigning sleep, had no intention of arguing with her.

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded, as though he really didn’t care that much. “Then I’ll have to replicate my experiment with a new slave.” John did not relax yet, suspecting Sherlock was not really giving up so easily.

“Molly’s also on light duty,” Sally reminded him quickly, despite the eager look on the young woman’s face. “From your _last_ experiment.”

“I _know_.” Sherlock went back to his phone, dismissively. “So give me someone _new_. Preferably with a high tolerance for pain, I don’t want a lot of screaming and crying.”

John had a feeling that Sherlock was not exactly bluffing—that if he kept quiet, Sherlock would indeed take a new slave from Sally, and happily torture them in the name of ‘science.’ And John couldn’t let that happen. And he was pretty sure Sherlock knew that. Letting out a sigh of defeat he forced himself to sit up and open his bleary eyes. “I volunteer,” he announced, with the least possible amount of enthusiasm.

He wanted to smack the smirk off Sherlock’s face. “Told you,” he said smugly to Sally.

She was staring at John in surprise, not because he’d been faking sleep—well, that was bold enough—but because he’d _stopped_ just when he was winning. “John, you don’t have to, the law says—“

“You heard him,” Sherlock interrupted. “He volunteered. I didn’t even speak to him.”

John pushed himself out of his seat with difficulty and joined Sherlock and Sally, veering off course only slightly en route. If he appeared a little intoxicated, well, sleep deprivation coupled with physical exertion could do that to you.

“Alright there, John?” Sherlock asked with amusement.

“Not really,” John shot back. “Some coffee and breakfast would be nice.” His tone was not at all subservient.

Sherlock blinked at him twice, then turned back to Sally. “I’ll need Molly, too.” The young woman stepped forward immediately.

“I just _told_ you—“ Sally began angrily.

“Just to get him coffee and breakfast!” Sherlock claimed, as though he was the only reasonable person in the room. “You’ve no idea what a whiny little b---h John can be when he doesn’t get his coffee.”

This was a rather obvious attempt on Sherlock’s part to rile John; but even knowing that John couldn’t hide his stab of outrage. “Oh my G-d! Really? A whiny little—“ Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say, _See?_ and John stopped himself. “F—k it. I’m going back to bed,” he decided ungraciously, and headed towards the door.

Sherlock had to chase after him several steps and grab his arm. “John!” He didn’t resist but just turned back to Sherlock with an expectant look that wasn’t quite all there. “ _I_ said I’d get you coffee,” Sherlock reminded him. “It’s Sally who’s holding us up.”

They looked back at the woman, past Molly who was caught halfway in between with uncertainty on her face. Trust Sherlock to throw the blame on _her_ , Sally thought angrily, watching him try to make an innocent expression. He didn’t even know the meaning of the word. And as for John—he’d seemed well-behaved when he first arrived, but maybe you _had_ to be insane to put up with Sherlock, or _became_ insane after too much exposure. Molly at least was still quiet, but you could tell something was off about her as well, especially the way she _wanted_ to spend time getting beaten by Sherlock.

Well, if either of them had attitude issues, Sherlock ought to be able to straighten them out, or no one could. Let the freaks play together, and keep away from everyone else.

“Get out of here, the lot of you,” Sally snapped.

Sherlock immediately dropped any semblance of interest in her and walked out of the room checking his phone, towing John along behind him with Molly scampering after. “Molly, go find John some coffee and breakfast, and meet us at my suite,” he ordered her as they headed down the hall.

“Alright,” she agreed cheerfully. She was just happy to be included. “What do you want, John? Pancakes or muffins or fruit or—“

John opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock cut him off, stopping and turning on him with a narrow look. “No, you’ve said enough on that subject,” he judged coolly. Molly took the hint and vanished towards the nearest coffee kiosk. Sherlock stood there trying to impress upon John the fact that he was _irritated_ at him, but the other man just kept wobbling back and forth, too tired to be properly intimidated.

Sherlock stepped towards John slowly, finally forcing him to back up towards the wall. Sherlock stopped with plenty of room for him, but John leaned away anyway, touched his back against the wall, and immediately regretted it. “Awake now?” Sherlock asked unsympathetically as the pain shot down John’s spine.

“Yeah, momentarily,” John confirmed briskly, trying to remember how to breathe again.

“Have I mentioned before that you are the _worst slave ever_?” Sherlock asked him.

John grinned suddenly. “Last night you said I was brilliant.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, do not walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” he ordered sternly. “Or _about_ you.”

“Even when you call me a whiny little b---h?”

Sherlock had to smirk slightly. “ _Especially_ then. Really,” he added seriously. “It makes me angry.”

“Right, stay put when someone’s talking to you, that seems pretty basic,” John agreed with a sigh.

Sherlock was not sure his lesson had really sunk in. “You’re pathetic,” he judged, grabbing his hand and heading down the hall again. “How can you be so tired? You were a soldier.”

“How can you _not_ be tired?” John countered indignantly.

“Try stimulating your brain more,” Sherlock advised, his tone suggesting it may already be too late for the other man.

John smirked anyway. “Well, I thought you were brilliant last night, too,” he repeated. Sherlock was occasionally susceptible to flattery, in the right context.

“Oh really?” Sherlock responded, pretending he was much more interested in his phone.

Then John had to think of more things to say. “Yes, I think it’s amazing that you solve crimes,” he tried.

Wrong approach. “Lots of people solve crimes,” Sherlock dismissed. “ _Greg_ solves crimes.”

“Yes, but you’re so smart, I’m glad you use it for something _good_ ,” John asserted. This seemed to catch Sherlock’s attention, as though he’d never thought of himself as doing good before. “You might use it to _plan_ crimes or something.”

“What would be the point?” Sherlock shrugged. “I’m already rich. And no one else would be able to solve them, so that would be disappointing.”

“Well, still.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again but John felt he might be slightly less annoyed now, and he tried to follow him through the maze of corridors and checkpoints without being too slow, or bumping into too much furniture. Sherlock made a scoffing noise suddenly, as though he’d found another irritation, and John saw that Greg was approaching them down the hall. “Hey, good job last night,” he commented, stopping them.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed matter-of-factly.

“Caught Peterson at the train station,” Greg went on, seeming pleased with the part he’d played in it—or perhaps just pleased that a murderer had been caught. “Had the diamond with him and everything.”

“Not unexpected,” Sherlock claimed, waiting impatiently to see if Greg would come up with anything more interesting to say. Past history suggested no. He felt John lean against his back with increasing weight.

“The dead fellow was—“

“Boring,” Sherlock judged, eyes straying to his phone.

Greg smirked a bit. “Well, Lt. Shapley was very impressed,” he went on. “Said Peterson would’ve gotten out of the country before they realized the body wasn’t him—if not for Captain Watson noticing his hands.” His grin widened as he saw Sherlock look up indignantly, miffed at the lack of praise for himself—even if he’d dismissed the case as hardly worth the effort.

“Must’ve been too busy with his dismemberment to look Captain Watson up yet,” Sherlock decided, slightly mean. “Maybe I should confess to him.” Greg made a noise of mild admonishment at Sherlock’s rather transparent envy. “No, really, I feel—what’s the word?— _guilty_ ,” Sherlock tried to claim. “That’s how people feel when they do something wrong, isn’t it?”

Greg _thought_ he was being facetious, but with Sherlock you never knew. “Hear that, John? Trying to steal your glory,” he teased. There was no response and they both tried to look over Sherlock’s shoulder at the man who rested heavily against him.

“John!” Sherlock said sharply, and John jerked up, looking around in alarm.

“What? Huh?”

Sherlock made an expression of disgust. “He needs _sleep_ , or something, apparently?” he commented to Greg in annoyance, as though this was an extraordinary request.

“And you don’t,” Greg surmised. Not that he’d missed this fact over the years.

“Rarely.” Sherlock started walking again, pulling John along before he could fall asleep once more.

John looked about blankly, still dazed. “Oh, there’s Greg,” he realized, checking behind him.

“ _Brilliant_ , John,” Sherlock told him acidly. “That’s the sort of brain power that solves cases.”

John was not offended. “Well, I only helped a _little_ ,” he reminded him cheerfully. Staying upbeat in the face of insults seemed to confuse Sherlock to no end. “Oh, we’re here,” he added dully, seeing Molly hovering outside the door to Sherlock’s suite carrying a to-go box and some coffee. He was moved to trot ahead of Sherlock and take the drink from her. “Thank you, thank you,” he murmured in between gulps.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Molly warned, futilely.

Sherlock shook his head as he opened the door. “Molly, have you _ever_ seen a worse slave than John?” he asked rhetorically, striding across the living room and clearly expecting them to follow.

“Well, it depends on the criteria,” Molly answered sensibly. “I think he’s very nice. And he doesn’t mind when you beat him with things.”

“You do have a point,” Sherlock conceded, which made her beam.

“Thanks,” John told her. “Can I have--?” She quickly opened the take-out container for him so he could have some fruit and a pinch of muffin.

“Why are you loitering in the hall?” Sherlock demanded from the bedroom, and they hurried after him. “Strip,” he told John, who was not surprised and set his coffee down, temporarily, to remove his clothes. “You too,” he added to Molly, who _was_ surprised.

“Oh, you wanted me to—“

“Isn’t she on _light duty_?” John asked, chucking his shirt aside.

“Taking one’s clothes off and lying quietly on the bed hardly violates the rules of light duty,” Sherlock told them sarcastically. “Get to it.” Not that Molly had any fundamental objection to taking off her clothes, especially for Sherlock. “I might as well see how _your_ marks are coming along, too,” he went on, pulling out his sketchpad. “Might be mildly useful.”

“It never ends with lying quietly on the bed,” John predicted. He was trying for cheeky but the hiss of pain as he lay down on his stomach ruined the effect.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Molly judged of the marks on his back, her use of the word ‘good’ not necessarily positive in this context. “Here’s your coffee. Can I have a bit of your breakfast?”

“Of course,” John allowed, putting the box on the bed in between them. “What’s light duty again?” he asked amiably, as Sherlock sat down on the foot of the bed behind them. After life in the army John was not terribly shy; and you couldn’t be _here_ , anyway. It was a little more awkward with a naked woman beside him, especially one he’d had sex with; but Molly was even more comfortable with such things than John was, which helped. “Am _I_ on light duty?” He certainly felt like he _ought_ to be.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sullen, and John glanced back over his shoulder to see him checking his phone.

“What, is it online?” John asked in surprise.

Sherlock looked at Molly. “It’s like he _completely_ missed all his orientation sessions,” he commented to her disdainfully.

“It’s hard to remember everything,” Molly sympathized.

“Apparently,” Sherlock judged.

John rolled his eyes. “So, light duty?” he repeated to Molly conversationally. The scritch of Sherlock’s pencil on the sketchpad was oddly soothing—at least you could always tell where he was.

“Light duty means oral sex only,” Molly told him matter-of-factly, biting into a grape.

“Oh,” John replied, trying to be equally professional. That’s what he was now: a professional in the sex trade. Still, the imagery that flashed through his mind, while lying naked next to her in bed—

“John, stop thinking about Molly performing oral sex,” Sherlock snapped, which really didn’t help. “Your muscles are tensing up.”

John cleared his throat and tried to relax, knowing his ears at least were pink. “Sorry.” Molly giggled in an affectionate way. Sherlock made a noise of exasperation behind them and John felt the need for a little payback. “Say, what was that thing you did to him the other night”—when all three of them had been playing together on this very bed—“that drove him crazy? You know, he made that sound, and actually stopped talking for thirty seconds—“ He hoped Sherlock remembered it just as well.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good one,” Molly agreed. Now her use of ‘good’ meant something _completely_ different. “What you have to do is—“ She tried to demonstrate with a strip of bacon and John found himself getting rather caught up in the mechanics of it—at least until the bacon strip snapped off in her mouth.

“That’s the climax of the technique, is it?” John asked, both of them getting the giggles.

“Not really the approved method,” Molly snickered.

“Would you both _hold still_ ,” Sherlock complained in irritation, and after that it was nearly impossible to stop chortling, knowing they weren’t supposed to.

Molly made an effort to calm down. “Um, but it’s really important to cover your teeth with your lips,” she went on to John, trying to sound instructive and serious.

“Yeah, that does tend to make men nervous,” John agreed. “In case something should get—er—bitten off.” They both chuckled again, more so when Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh behind them.

“Yeah, accidentally using teeth is a good way to get smacked in the face,” Molly nodded casually.

“Oh,” John responded, the humor suddenly vanishing for him. He felt slightly ill now in fact, the reality of his and Molly’s helplessness before their free masters rushing over him in a suffocating wave.

“Who hit you?”

John looked back over his shoulder in surprise—Sherlock was staring at Molly with uncomfortable intensity. “It wasn’t you?” he ventured carefully. He’d just assumed—

Sherlock’s blue eyes flickered over to him, ice cold. Which, paradoxically, gave John some hope that they weren’t _really_ alone and uncared for. “I’ve never hit Molly in anger,” Sherlock told him fiercely. His gaze went back to her. “Only for scientific purposes, and entertainment. Who was it?”

Molly squirmed a little, self-conscious now and realizing she shouldn’t have mentioned it. “Oh, it was a long time ago, when you were away at uni—“

“Name.” John’s gaze pinged back and forth between the two of them, uncertain who Sherlock was actually angry with.

“Your cousin, Cedric,” Molly finally admitted, in a small voice.

Sherlock took a breath and let it out. “Cedric is a disgusting worm,” he pronounced, utterly serious. Then he went back to sketching.

John and Molly slowly relaxed, as that seemed like the end of it. He was a very strange creature, John thought—not very comforting, given how vulnerable slaves like he and Molly were in this world. But he thought maybe, just maybe, Sherlock wasn’t as bad as a lot of people seemed to think. “So, what are you reading now?” John asked Molly conversationally. “Still that Beethoven biography?”

“No, I finished that one,” she replied. “Now I’m reading this book about particle physics…”

Particle physics, it turned out, was weird enough to keep John occupied for several minutes, almost making him forget the absurd situation he was in—lying naked on a bed next to a naked woman, while a third person studied the painful marks he’d put on both of them in the name of science. Best not to think about it too much, really; that seemed to be Molly’s philosophy, anyway.

Then he felt movement at the end of the bed and he looked back to see Sherlock stand and set his sketchpad aside—and start unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?” John asked. He knew it was a stupid question. But he _didn’t_ know what answer he hoped for.

The look in Sherlock’s eye was familiar. “Time for a little pain for entertainment purposes,” he quipped. He eyed them speculatively and John felt his pulse quicken in anticipation, despite his own discomfort and exhaustion. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t the only crazy one around here.

“You promised I could sleep!” he said indignantly, even as his eyes were fixed on Sherlock removing his trousers.

“I gave you the _opportunity_ to sleep,” Sherlock pointed out crisply. He was also not shy about nudity. “Instead you chose to eat and talk to Molly.”

Which was hardly fair, John thought, but life for slaves was much less fair than average, and it did make sense using Sherlock-logic. Sadly.

“Well, we’re only on light duty anyway,” he grumbled, right before Sherlock snatched away his coffee and food.

“I’m well aware of your limitations,” he said, with a slight sneer. “Fortunately, I have some ideas.”


End file.
